


La Lune

by ih8tuberculosis



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ih8tuberculosis/pseuds/ih8tuberculosis
Summary: Micah Bell sneaks into a high class burlesque club in Saint Denis and meets the only person who would ever care for him





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, you, sugartits!” I looked around, alarmed. I hoped no one was referring to me as such. 

I had just finished my set at La Lune, one of the many high class burlesque clubs that Saint Denis had to offer. The crowd was sparse, as it usually was during the matinee performances. Usually, the dancers used this time to work out new routines. Today, I had emerged from a giant champagne glass and slinked around the stem. Tomorrow, I would try some new acrobatic rope tricks.

I was wearing $40 shoes, a gift from a rich man for whom La Lune was the club of choice for business meetings. An expensive lace corset cinched my waist. I wore little pink bloomers, and a long pink robe with fur trim. 

Essentially, I was not used to answering to “sugartits.”

Sure enough, an unkempt looking blonde man was lumbering towards me, uttering more terms that I’m sure were intended to be flattering. I had no idea how he got through the door.

“What do you want?” I asked a bit haughtily, guessing that I knew exactly what he wanted. Security was looking at us now.

“How much for a go with you?” he asked, leering, “although from what they tell me when I’m done, I reckon you should pay me.”

My eyebrows rose in shock, but I laughed a bit. “How did you get in here, sir?” 

“Some friends distracted the doorman while I crawled under the tables for a free show, same as everyone else,” he deadpanned, “so how ‘bout it?”

“I don’t sleep with clients,” I insisted, “or any man that smells like you.” He faltered visibly. 

“Well then, screw you miss fancypants, really pretty ugly up close, ain’t you?”

“Now I know you don’t mean that. Are you this crude to everybody, or is there something special about me?” I demurred. He sidled closer to me. 

I knew this type from what seemed like a lifetime ago. All jokes and intimidation. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and a thick scar ran from his lip to the bottom of his chin. I subtly motioned to the four large, barrel-chested men who were glaring hard at the blonde man. 

“If you touch me, they’re going to beat you, you know. But something tells me you’re thinking you might do it for fun.”

“Well, somebody has to get the shindig started,” the man replied, chuckling unconvincingly. I had him a bit shaken up, didn’t I? He hadn’t bathed in a while, I could tell, but his mustache was kind of cute, and he had puppy dog eyes that almost seemed intelligent under all of that posturing. He couldn’t possibly know, but I did like my men a little rougher than the usual crowd here.

“Tell you what,” I said, “I’m not a whore by any means, but I’ll let you take me to dinner. I’ll learn some more about you. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about me. But you have to play by my rules.”

“Well, look, sweetheart, I ain’t known for followin’ rules.”

“That’s too bad,” I said nonchalantly, turning just so to allow my robe to reveal my lower leg and outline my ass as it swished, “Bon soir.”

“Wait, honey.” Hook, line, sinker. I turned my head over my shoulder with feigned disinterest. 

“Yes?”

“What are the rules?”

“Well,” I started, sashaying to him once more, “I’d like to know your name, first of all. Second, you’re going to need a bath before we dine. And the last thing is the most important.”

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked through gritted teeth. Oh, it was killing him to be good, but he wanted me so badly. 

“I like to be treated nicely. I have a lot to give to a man, but I’m sensitive. If you aren’t sweet to me...” I shrugged.

With satisfaction, I watched him struggle with himself. The man obviously did not like being told what to do, but I could tell he liked a challenge. I could see him filtering about a hundred rude comments before he finally grinned. 

“Alright then, would you meet me at Le Grenouille at eight o’clock? I’ll threaten the host for the finest table.” I cocked my eyebrow. Very fancy.

“I would be delighted.” I hid my smile, turning to my dressing room.

“Miss?”

“Yes?” 

“It’s Micah, Micah Bell.”

“Bette Beaumont.”

As he walked away, I heard him whistle, just loud enough for me to hear, I’m sure, 

“Bette Bell, pretty fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

Unfortunately, I was the kind of woman who bored easily and, subsequently, the kind of woman who thrilled from a dangerous situation. This must have been the explanation as to why I had slipped my favorite undergarment set under my dress with an exciting secrecy, all the while promising myself that I would not invite him upstairs under any circumstances. 

I met him at 8:15. He was seated at a central table before a large window overlooking the water. 

“You kept the mustache and chops.”

Temper flashed in his eyes for less than a second before he sheepishly ran his fingers through it. I noticed that he had had his lanky hair trimmed into a parted fade, and the shirt he wore, though too casual for this particular establishment, was clean and well pressed. 

“I’ve had it for so long,” he said defensively, “I hope it don’t bother your highness too much.”

“Oh not at all Mr. Bell,” I clarified, “I quite admired it when we met, and I’m pleased to see you haven’t gotten rid of it on my account.”

He shifted uncomfortably, shooting a disdainful look at the white tablecloth.

“You look very handsome,” I offered. I hoped the rest of the evening would not be so silent as this. 

“Well, you told me I was supposed to, lady!” he said a little too loudly. A man with a monocle at the next table peeked over his shoulder in an exaggerated manner. 

“And I appreciate it,” I said sweetly, “You did tell me that you don’t like following rules. Now, how do I look? I dressed up for you too.” 

Poor Mr. Bell was not in his element. The swaggering crudeness that he had assaulted me with hours before was struggling to emerge in the face of floral centerpieces and five different forks.

“You look beautiful, real lovely,” he said gruffly, meeting my eyes as if he was forcing himself to do so.  
When the waiter arrived at our table, I took charge, ordering us a bottle of red wine and a the house’s five course meal, the shortest endeavor on the menu and currently very chic. I was used to acting the part of a comforting presence around skittish or difficult men; it was so often part of my job.

“So, Mr. Bell, tell me about yourself,” I began.

“Well, ugh, I’m a rancher.”

“Oh, yes? A little far east aren’t you?”

“Well, sure, I’m here on business.”

“Do you always carry so many weapons on business trips?”

That same barely contained annoyance flashed dangerously in his eyes. 

“Well, what about the lady?”

“You saw me at work, already.”

“And where are you from? The English court?” He had eaten his soup with the wrong spoon, and the waiter glared with distaste at the offending utensil, discarded and dripping broth onto the tablecloth.

“Now, now,” I reprimanded, with a hint of irony in my tone, “You promised to be nice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, frankly, “This is nicer than I ever thought I could be.”

“I’ll be honest with you if you’ll be honest with me,” I said, leaning in to refill our glasses. 

“What?”

“You asked me where I was from.” I lowered my voice to a low, inconspicuous coo that men seemed to find so appealing. 

“I’ll tell you if you admit that you have quite a hefty price on your head in Blackwater and just about everywhere else besides.” Mr. Bell choked on a chunk of roast turkey. 

“You shouldn’t let filthy lies come out of such a pretty mouth,” he growled. Without noticing, we had both leaned over the table. Underneath, a rough hand grabbed my wrist, not quite hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make me gasp. Again, I regarded the scar on his chin, shivering as I imagined its creation. Slowly, he moved my hand to his outstretched calf and pressed it against the gun hidden under his pant leg. Unable to breathe, I noted that inside those fancy drawers I had so coyly hidden under my clothes flooded with heat. 

My voice quavered, despite my efforts to remain fully in charge of the conversation.

“I did not intend to threaten you.” his blue eyes focused on me coldly. “I only wanted for us to be honest with each other.”

His grip on my wrist relaxed, and my hand slid smoothly in to his.

“Tell me about you then.”

“I’m not from Saint Denis,” I explained calmly, ignoring the tingle of intimacy as his hand held mine suspiciously gently, “I’m from outside of Blackwater. My family owned a ranch. When they died, I came here to work.”

“Cute story,” he mocked, “do you tell that to all the fellers?”

“As I told you, I never see men outside of the club. And, no, it’s true. I thought it would make you laugh because you seem to think I’m fancy.”

“How come you talk so nice?”

“I used to read, I guess, growing up. When I came to the city, I worked hard to lose the accent.”

“Do it, then.”

I grinned, “Mighty fine doin’ business with you, sir.”

He laughed. It was kind of nice. 

“So what’s your real name?” I laughed, surprised, as I sipped my wine, and it served as a reminder that I should stop drinking. 

“How did you know?”

“Come on.”

“Alright, it is Bette. Bette Meyer.”

“Just as pretty.” Our chairs had somehow gotten closer together, and I could feel an alcohol flush high in my cheeks. We both became aware of the attention we were receiving. The monocle man tapped Mr. Bell on the shoulder. My gut quickly sank. 

“Excuse me sir,” he said, falsely obsequious, “I’m afraid you are approaching rather high volumes and close proximities to the lady while myself and others are trying to enjoy a meal. If you could kindly correct these behaviors, I think we all --”

Mr. Bell stood up from his chair, now towering over the little man, who let out an indignant squeak. 

“Let’s just leave,” I tugged at the outlaw’s arm pleadingly. He threw money on the table.

“Imagine, a working woman at Le Grenouille,” monocle man whispered, a bit too loudly for his own good. 

“Mr. Bell,” I warned, but it was too late. He had grabbed the salad fork, which he had treated with such neglect earlier, and thrust it into the man’s shoulder. The onlookers fell silent for a moment, attempting to register the scene before them. Soon, however, the screams began. Monocle man had fallen dramatically to the floor and sobbed as Mr. Bell delivered half-hearted kicks to his ribs. Outside, I could see the police mobilizing, little blue dots on a gray street.

“Mr. Bell, stop!” I cried, tugging at him. His eyes were fiery as he turned to me with a terrifying, wide grin. I pulled him towards the kitchen exit. With his free arm, he brandished the revolver, firing warning shots into the fresco above. Along the way, he managed to punch and kick about ten more hapless patrons, all the while howling, “she ain’t a whore!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that the smut appears in this chapter. Micah is also homophobic, but OC puts him in his place.

I panted, closing the door behind me and collapsing onto it. Mr. Bell and I had sprinted through the alleys of Saint Denis all the way to my building, slowing only once to discard my heeled boots. He had grabbed my arm then, supporting me as I kicked them off.

“Come on darlin’, we gotta go,” he had coaxed, like we were a team. I suppose I was his accomplice, now. 

I straightened, finding my composure. I had just sheltered a lunatic who I hardly knew. I darted my head in front of the window for a moment, taking stock of the officers rushing past in pursuit. We were safe, for now. 

He had his hands on his knees, panting and laughing. He had tossed his hat on my vanity haphazardly. 

“Haha, did you see that slimy bastard, crying on the floor? Phew. What a queer.”

I stormed into the other room, annoyed. 

“I’ve met plenty of lovely homosexuals since moving here, you know, all very talented and intellectual,” I called, “you shouldn’t use the term as an insult; it promotes violence.”

“I love violence,” Mr. Bell scoffed from the other room, then fell silent.

“It ain’t right though, is it? Everybody thinks so. My dad always said at least.”

“I have a feeling that your acquaintances are idiots, Mr. Bell, full offense to your father. It’s all perfectly natural.” I emerged from my room, having shed my dress for a comfortable fleece robe.

“Here,” I said, handing Mr. Bell a well-worn book. “I suppose I would normally ask you to bring it back, but I never want to see you again.”

“Leaves of Grass,” he read, mockingly, “what gave you the impression that I could read, sweetheart?”

“You just did, didn’t you? You might learn something. Besides, I think you’ll benefit from what he has to say about this country.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mr. Whitman seems to think that we can be free without raping and pillaging.”

Mr. Bell sauntered over to me as I focused on removing my earrings. 

“Darlin’, in case I wasn’t clear before, pillaging’s what really gets my blood going.” With the back of his hand, he trailed his fingers down the curve of my neck and tucked my long, light brown hair over one shoulder.

“Well, that and the company of a beautiful woman.”

I shrugged his hand away.

“The police have given up by now. You should leave. Thank you for dinner.”

“Oh, I see.”

His tone was dangerous again. I should have never brought him back to my rooms.

“So you knew who I was right away, did you? Let me take you out for a little thrill, but it was too thrilling, hm. And now you never want to see me again, is that right?” He took my arm and pulled me roughly from my vanity. My heart pounded in fear and arousal. His scent washed over me, clean from his recent bath, with a base of smoke and musk that lingered despite it. 

“You broke my rules,” I said stonily, “you promised to be nice.”

“No, darlin’, I promised to treat you nice. And I did, for you. But you can’t ask me to be nice to the whole world.” We were chest to chest now, and as he leaned in to my ear, his hot breath on my neck, my eyes fluttered closed. “It ain’t in my nature.”

I placed both hands on his chest and pushed firmly. He laughed, but not the one I liked. The calculated one. 

“Please,” I said, as coldly as I could muster, “leave.” I couldn’t let him smell my fear.

His lips found my neck, kissing it lightly, slowly, up to my ear again. My breath stuttered.

“I could take you right now.” I struggled then, but he held me fast by my upper arms. “There’s no one here to stop me. Even if they did find me, I’d hang peacefully remembering your tight cunt.” For some reason, the thought of him at the end of a rope hurt me more than his threats. I had no idea what was wrong with me.

“You don’t want that, though,” I retorted, proud of the evenness of my voice, “you want me to want you. More than anything, you do.” I gathered the strength to meet his eyes. So I was right. 

“Have you ever had a woman that you didn’t pay for, Mr. Bell? Someone who wanted you?” I held my breath, knowing that I’d gone too far. 

He chuckled lowly.

“You’re right darlin’. No one’s ever wanted me. You see right through me.” He released me and replaced his hat, turning towards the door. I fell back against my vanity with an oddly empty sensation. He was bluffing.

“I know something about you too, though.” He continued toward the door, spurs clanking on my hardwood floors. Then he was reaching for the door handle, crossing the threshold.

“What?” I breathed. 

“That.”

How infuriating.

A few more clanks on my floor and I was in his arms, knocking his hat off his head, running my fingers through his short, silky hair. He kissed me deeply, but not roughly, and I let out an shameless moan, surprised at the sensation. I have never been kissed like this, I thought, mind foggy. He chuckled darkly as I broke away to unbutton his shirt. I was really beginning to crave that sound. 

“You act pretty cold, sweetheart, pretty tough,” he smiled at me with the closest emotion to fondness that he had, “but you want to be taken care of just like anyone else.” I sighed as he groped me under my robe. A rough finger tweaked my nipple. I unwrapped myself, letting the garment fall to my feet. He scooped me into his arms, propped open my bedroom door, and tossed me none too ceremoniously into the bed. At a willowy five feet eight inches, not many men had ever made me feel petite. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, Bette,” he murmured, kissing a hot trail down my body before settling decidedly between my legs.

“Mr. Bell,” I purred, “you strike me as the kind of man who’s never done this before.”

“I haven’t,” he grinned, “but I’m supposed to treat you nice, remember?” He ran his tongue firmly over the length of my slit, causing me to cry out in need. 

“And call me Micah,” he added. 

I did call him Micah, several times, loudly, as he lapped at my pussy. He seemed to enjoy when I rubbed myself on his face because I could hear him, albeit muffled, whispering dirty words of encouragement to me. I called him Micah as I begged him to enter me, and he obliged, sliding his thick cock into my aching center with a low groan. He fucked me hard, relishing each cry that slipped from my swollen lips. 

His delicious weight on mine kindled a sweet, unexpected warmth inside my chest, and I tucked my head into his neck as he took me, breathing him in. 

When I pushed Micah away, I was rewarded with a sharp smack, but he quickly forgave me as I bent over on my hands and knees, stinging ass raised in the air. Though I had obviously taught him something new, he took to the position quite well.

“Fuck, darlin’, so good down there,” he muttered, skin slapping skin in a sinful rhythm, “I’m gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. So good to me.” I rubbed myself in time to his ruthless thrusts, moaning with abandon. I sounded foreign to my own ears, nothing like the breathy squeals I let out during my routines. I sounded like a wild animal. 

“Tell me how I feel, darlin’, go ahead,” Micah encouraged, gasping as he held back his own release in favor of mine. I reached my peak chanting his name. A deep, fulfilling pulse resonated through my pussy, finally. I had been aching for him since we met. I collapsed, head and chest buried in pillows, while Micah pounded into my overstimulated pussy. 

“Oh, Micah,” I sobbed, “oh come for me, honey.”

He released with a needy moan, shooting his warm spunk on my ass. He clung to me for a moment, and when his breathing slowed, he wiped me off with a bandana from the pocket of his pants. He pulled the pants on and tucked the rag into his back pocket. 

“Leaving?”

“I’m a real bad man, Bette.”

“My bad man, now.” I felt his warm weight settle next to me, and he pulled me tight to his chest. “Mm, you smell like sex.”

“And I thought you’d never have me because of my smell.”

“Well, you figured out about soap since then.”

He said something else, but by the time it had registered, I was already asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

A subtle indentation in my blankets and the excitingly new smell of Micah were all that I woke up to. So he had left after all. My hopes fell stupidly. His hat and coat were gone, but my copy of Leaves of Grass sat, forgotten, on my vanity. Why this hurt me, I didn’t want to examine, lest it become too real. 

Petulantly, I collapsed in the chair and stared lazily at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t used to being used, rather, I did the using. And by some dirty outlaw, at that. Damn it all. I wiped off the splotchy powder and rouge from the night before. The black powder that I had scrubbed through my eyelashes now laid heavily under my eyes. I scrubbed my face thoroughly, and brushed my hair back into a braid. There. Now, to start the day. I was determined not to think of him again. As I began to run a bath, the front door opened, forcing a scream from my mouth. When I recognized the intruder, though, a broad smile pressed at my cheeks. 

“What are you grinnin’ at? You didn’t have shit in that goddam icebox,” Micah said gruffly, handing me a carton of eggs. I put them on the table and flung my arms around him. He smiled despite himself. 

“Unbelievable,” he huffed, “you’re even prettier like this.” He ran a finger over my cheek, making a mocking squeaking sound. 

I laughed in what I could only imagine was an unattractive manner. 

“Why does it always sound like you’re making fun of me when you’re paying a compliment?”

“I never learned how to be decent.”

I let him go and began to prepare our eggs. 

“My daddy was as mean as they come,” he continued, “so he was real proud of me. My little brother, you know, he didn’t care much for the family business.”

With my back turned, my expression of surprise went unnoticed. I had accepted early in our brief acquaintance that Micah would never tell me anything without at least a hint of sarcasm. It harkened back to another bit of knowledge that I had picked up from my line of work: when you make a men feel comfortable, the hardest ones will crack wide open.

“All that stuff you were saying, about the dandies, my father wouldn’t agree with that, that’s plain. That’s the kind of folks he would string up just for fun. But he felt that way ‘bout lots of types.”

“That’s awful,” I said, sympathetically. Micah’s head snapped up as though he hadn’t noticed he was talking. He grumbled and fell silent, pulling a thread on his white hat. 

“Do you see them much?” I asked, “your family?”

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “No, mama died a long time ago. Daddy too. Got a lot of killin’ in before he got hanged. My brother, well, I guess my daddy would roll in his grave if I didn’t kill him when he turns up.”

“Your own brother?” I frowned.

“A coward,” he said through gritted teeth, “We grew up runnin’ with my daddy, but he left us when times got tough. Said he didn’t think it was ‘right’ anymore.”

I felt we were treading on thin ice.

“It isn’t right, though. Is it?”

“Well, I reckon, I mean my daddy always said, that to be a man you gotta be strong enough to take whatever you want, from anybody. That it’s for losers to be scared about judgement and such. Sometimes you gotta kill folk. You bring home the money and your woman don’t have to worry none. You gotta be strong enough to face Hell when it comes. To be a winner.”

“That’s the craziest way of looking at things that I’ve ever heard,” I muttered. The eggs were forgotten. I sat on his lap. He looked tired all of a sudden.

“I shouldn’t have told you all that,” he said. “Ain’t no kind of talk for a lady.”

“It’s alright.” I twisted his mustache away from his lip. “Women can be strong too, even if your father didn’t think so.”

“I been figuring that out.”

“He sounds like a real son of a bitch.”

“He was,” Micah grinned.

“I didn’t mean it like a good thing,” I frowned back, “violence isn’t something to live by.”

“But, darlin’, you don’t understand,” he said, “the rush I get, takin’ and takin’... well, it can’t be beat.”

“You didn’t want to take me,” I said, calmly. His eyes closed as I stroked the little hairs at his neck. 

“Wasn’t it better when you gave me a choice, and I picked you?”

“You’re very wise,” he said lowly. 

We had sex again, right there on the kitchen floor. Afterwards, I reached a lazy arm up to the table and we ate cold eggs on my oriental rug. I laid on my stomach, and he stroked meandering lines down my back. He lit two cigarettes, handing one to me. My landlord was going to make me pay for that. For a long time, we laid like that, not talking. 

“I might not be able to come back here for a long time,” he said, finally.

“And who said you were invited back?” I pinched the dimple that hid under his scruffy chops. 

He looked at me gravely. “No, really, honey. We’ve got a… big job coming up. Might not be able to come back for a long time.”

“Here?” I asked, sitting up on his chest.

“Don’t ask me somethin’ like that. But, maybe stay close to home for the next few days. I doubt it’ll go well.”

“Then why do it?” Micah shifted into a sitting position and took a long drag. 

“Because the boss said so. Things ain’t goin’ too well for us, and he’s gettin’ real sloppy. I guess I been encouragin’ that.”

“Why encourage him?”

“Because I’m a piece of work, honey. I love a messy fight.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“Maybe.”

“And you’re not worried about dying?”

“I deserved to die a long time ago, sweetheart. I guess it’s any day now.”

I sat up, too. I collected the plates and took them to the sink. Briskly, I pulled my robe on and proceeded to scrub them. 

“Now don’t go tellin’ me you care about me,” Micah said, incredulously.

I was quiet.

“I know,” Micah said, coming up behind me and wrapping his big arms around me, “this was something, wasn’t it. I didn’t think you’d care. First person ever, I think.”

“Can I write to you?”

“Uh,” Micah hesitated for a second, and his face turned inexplicably red as he said, “write to Tacitus Kilgore in Van Horn. I’ll make sure I get it.” He picked up Leaves of Grass from the vanity. 

“Can I still borrow this?”

“And if you die?”

“I’ll have a hundred doves fly it back to you.”

“How romantic.”

At the door, he turned back to me once more. 

“Be careful at work. Mind those security guards. And you really shouldn’t indulge any more of my type.”

“I learned my lesson,” I smiled back, “and, Micah, I do hope I see you again.”

“You better watch out, or someday I’m gonna do one better and marry you.” And then he was really gone.


	5. Chapter 5

“God fucking damn it up your mother’s cunt!” Micah brought Leaves of Grass down on his left arm with a sharp crack, narrowly missing a hellishly large mosquito. Unbothered, it lazily alighted upon his right arm. Micah pinched his skin around the insect’s needle, trapping it as it fed. It struggled, tiny wiry feet pushing against his skin, until its thin shell burst open and Micah’s own blood splattered on his arm. He flicked his adversary's corpse off of him and resumed his task of waving the book back and forth.

He wasn’t a patient man to begin with, but the fact that Morgan had been glaring at him since the sun came up suddenly fused with the heat and the bugs and snapped his restraint clean in half. 

“If you’re lookin’ for a fight, cowpoke, I’d like nothin’ more at this moment than to rip off both your arms and use ‘em to row us out of this shithole.”

Morgan continued to grimace. 

“Aww, what is it, cowpoke? Can’t stand to see you upset.”

“You kill a woman or somethin’?” Morgan poked the fire with a damp stick. It was already hot as hell, but the rebels had shown him what sticks to burn to keep the mosquitos away. Worked real well. 

“What?”

“You kill a woman?” Morgan stopped poking at the sticks and studied him with deep loathing.

This was a new line of questioning from Arthur Morgan.

“No, I ain’t killed a woman. At least not that I remember.”

“Then how come you were sayin’ her name in your sleep all last night, real happy. You never sound happy like that unless you killed someone.”

“Looks like you got a little too much brine up in that empty head of yours, Morgan. I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“Arthur!” Dutch called, his voice urgent and grandiose. Morgan swung his stick into the fire, never taking his eyes off of Micah, and stalked away to do Dutch’s bidding. 

The moody asshole clearly blamed him for what had happened. It was true that the Pinkertons had swarmed them almost immediately, and it didn’t make him happy that the kid, Lenny, got shot. He watched Morgan stalk back over to the fire and throw himself down in front of it. He heaved a few unproductive coughs. 

Micah felt what other people might call “sympathy” for Morgan, so he decided to attempt something that other people might call “reaching out.”

“You suck Dutch off that fast? I’m impressed.”

“Keep talkin’ rat.”

“Look, cowpoke,” Micah shifted closer to the fire, arm tired from waving the waterlogged book around in the humid air, “I hate to disagree with you on minor points, but why the hell would I come with you to rob a bank if I knew there were gonna be a couple hundred private sector bastards shooting at my dick?”

Morgan said nothing, just went back to poking at the fire. Micah wondered what the headlines read in the city: “Dirty Assholes Attempt Bank Robbery, Gunned down by Capitalists”; “VanderLinde Gang Bested by Hero Desk-Fuckers”; “Remember that Ugly Bastard You Fucked? He’s Probably Dead or At Least in Hell.” 

Arthur shot him a pointed look. His eyes were bloodshot. Micah guessed that he hadn’t slept in days.

“Stop laughing like that you crazy fuck. You’re stayin’ here today. Me n’ Dutch are gonna go find Javier.”

This was starting to get fucking sad. Back in Rhodes, it had been so easy and satisfying to undermine Morgan. Now… well, they were trapped on Hell Island, Morgan was starting to look more like that morphine priest who always tagged along, and Micah had yet to get anything he wanted out of Dutch. 

Micah had appreciated Dutch’s growing lunacy as it had been conducive to two of his favorite activities: killing unnecessary amounts of people and making money. Dutch’s lunacy had since become inconvenient, as evidenced by the fact that he was being eaten alive in a boobie trapped fucking jungle with the cowpoke as his only company, and, as much as he hated to admit it, seeing the cowpoke this sunken wasn’t as fun as he had imagined.

“My friend, some free advice,” Micah lit two cigarettes and handed one to Morgan, “Dutch is gonna keep finding wars to fight until all his soldiers are dead, and, as many flowery speeches as he makes about freedom and morality, there ain’t no reasons for it. Your Dutch got a taste for runnin’ and takin’ and he will do anythin’ to keep on runnin’ and takin’ now, and I mean anythin’. You understand?”

Morgan’s eyes were tight, but he nodded once.

“I know because I’m the same. No, I’m much worse. You ain’t, cowpoke. That might be a compliment coming from a different man.”

Morgan looked baffled now. Micah sputtered.

“Oh, fuck. Don’t look at me like that cowpoke… I, I’m just throwin’ you a bone that’s right in front of ya anyway. You gotta… think. Decide what kind of man you’re gonna be. Me? It’s easy. I’m crooked and rotten all the way through. But you ain’t rotted all the way through… I mean it’s clear you’re miserable tryin’ to be a man, that’s all.”

“So you’re tellin’ me to leave Dutch and go be a good man, is that it? So he’ll give you the order to shoot me. Nice try, rat.” Arthur shook his head and braced his hands on his knees to stand up. Micah sprung up, too. 

“You ain’t listenin’. This ain’t about me and you. We keep goin’ like this, we’ll both be dead, and it won’t matter. It’s too late for me, I mean, it was never possible,” he hissed, “Think about how you wanna go, that’s all. Who you wanna be when you die.” Arthur shook his head slightly like he didn’t really understand the intention. He started to get his guns together.

“Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.”

Arthur raised his head, eyebrows knitted quizzically. He glanced down at the wrinkled book that Micah clutched.

“Micah Bell, I think you might be the one that has too much brine sloshing around up there.”

Micah cleared his throat and sat down nonchalantly.

“I don’t know. That’s just something a pansy said once.”

“I know what pansy said it, but there is no explaining how you know how to read.”

“You neither. I’ll shoot your knees out if you tell Bill.”

“Fair enough.”

It took about as long for the book to dry as it took for Dutch to find a way off of the island, although the misrepresentation there is that it took the book weeks to dry. Just as Micah had predicted, Dutch had assumed an unnecessarily significant role in the war between the people of Guarma and Fussar, leaving Arthur to most of the work. Micah, Bill, and Javier lazed around camp in the stifling heat, Micah reading the pansy book and itching out of his skin to shoot Bill in the face for refusing to wear a shirt.

Dutch finally convinced a rebel captain to board them on a trip back to America, a deal which, luckily for Micah’s sanity, involved killing a decent number of imperialists. He was tasked to place explosives. Normally, this would have bordered on a holiday for him, but he felt for the first time in his life what he saw in Arthur’s face after every job, a quality that he once thought was weakness, but that he now knew to be an alienating sensation of not understanding what he was doing or why he was doing or how he even got here in the first place. 

Arthur, who should have taken this opportunity to let Fussar’s men shoot Micah’s greasy head off, covered him surprisingly well. Micah thought this meant Arthur had understood him. That night, as they sat awake on the ship, tossed around like a puppet on the open sea, Micah caught the empty expression on Arthur’s sallow face and knew that the cowpoke had covered him well because Dutch had told him to.

Dutch talked. Micah wasn’t listening to the words, but the sounds were emotive. He was meant to feel optimistic, motivated, appeased. He knew this, and he knew the words didn’t matter. Dutch’s eyes gleamed, and his hands gestured wildly. Bill vomited in the cabin. Arthur’s eyes rested shut, but he wasn’t sleeping. His face was tinged blue. Micah didn’t sleep either, but he dreamed of warmer colors, those that belonged to rosy cheeks and frilly lingerie and scrambled eggs.


End file.
